Bring On The Prozac

I'm happy with my life. Seriously. But I'm just a bit neurotic about a few things, and I think if I medicated myself, then perhaps I wouldn't be so bitchy about them.

Take my husband's' socks, for example. He likes to take them off immediately after he sits down, and the socks remain there until I pick them up. Regardless of where he's sitting. Which means I find dirty socks under the coffee table, in front of the toilet, in bags close to the sofa, or, when he's trying to be funny, ON the kitchen table. They're just socks, nothing life threatening. Worst case scenario, my newly-crawling daughter buzzes by me with a dirty sock hanging from her mouth. She'll live. So why do socks drive me so crazy?

And the piles. Endless piles of stuff strew from my back door to the bedroom. He likes to empty his pockets upon entering a room, and the little piles all over the house make it look like the entire house is drowning under little piles of change, reciepts, and car knick-knacks.

Another example... my cubicle neighbor calls and talks to her customers. Why does this bother me so much? Is it because it makes her look like a better designer than me? Is it because she CARES about what her customers think? Why do I care anyway?

I truly have nothing in life to complain about. I have a very loving (albeit messy, but I am too), loyal and absolutely wonderful husband, a beautiful child, and every material thing in life I ever needed. A beautiful house. Great cars. Fun job. So what is the deal?

Is it time for the happy pills when you start to have to FIND stuff to bitch about?